


thērepōdos

by crackleviolet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-09 18:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackleviolet/pseuds/crackleviolet
Summary: Alexei Jeralt Lambert Blaiddyd.Yesterday that name meant nothing to her.Now it is her everything and fills every corner of her heart. Byleth can’t tear her eyes away from the cot, can’t focus on anything but the tiny body in her arms.





	1. Chapter 1

**FE3H | Dimileth | Gen**

**Based on this one head canon I had about Byleth first feeling a heartbeat when pregnant. **

> _thērepōdos | “charming wild beasts” _

* * *

**  
** Alexei Jeralt Lambert Blaiddyd.**  
**

Yesterday that name meant nothing to her.

Now it is her everything and fills every corner of her heart. Byleth can’t tear her eyes away from the cot, can’t focus on anything but the tiny body in her arms.

They told her this would happen but she had never believed them. A mother’s thoughts and feelings are alien to her-a foreign language she has often overheard though never understood. Her mistake, she supposes, was trying to apply strategy to this particular unknown.

She tried to think several steps ahead from the moment she found out. Ever the ashen demon, her response was to search for a calendar and reschedule her public appearances while Dimitri fell into silence, overwhelmed by the news.

They fought a lot during her pregnancy.

Byleth has never been delicate. Her hands are covered in calluses from hours of training and her body has been beaten countless shades of black and blue. She carries a sword and switchblade even after taking on the combined mantles of archbishop and Queen of Faerghus. She saw no reason for things to be different simply because she carried a child. Her body had survived far harsher conditions than pregnancy.

Dimitri, by comparison, will never forget the feeling of losing everything. He spent his youth chasing the same stolen legacy that he now swears to protect. Every scar on his body holds a memory and almost all of them are betrayal. He is no longer the raging beast that executed thieves but he and Byleth both know that it still dwells within him, caught in a restless sleep. 

One of their first arguments in those first few months fell on his insistence that she remain in Faerghus until the child was born, only to be met with a flat refusal. Byleth was the archbishop and her presence at Garreg Mach was important to say the least. 

They compromised, albeit reluctantly. Byleth returned to the monastery accompanied by Dudue, who was equally as-if not more so- protective of the unborn heir. In truth, Byleth did not know who coddled her more: Dudue, who spent night after night guarding her bedroom door; Seteth, who sternly rearranged her schedule despite her insistence that she wasn’t too tired nor too weak to attend everything on it; Alois, who rubbed her stomach like a magic lamp and bellowed at the other knights at even the slightest threat to the safety of Jeralt’s grandchild; her husband, who would appear at the monastery on a whim and spend the evenings draped across her as if to protect her from thin air. 

Dimitri’s final condition was that she spend her final months in Fhirdiad and she kept her word, returning to the capital during the first winter snow. By then the combination of discomfort and being mollycoddled had left her temper at boiling point. She just wanted it to be over; wanted to hold her child in her arms and get back to her duties.

Of course, that all fell apart during the Guardian Moon.

Labour was a battle unlike any she had fought before. For the first time in her life, she was truly afraid. Even she, the ashen demon, screamed eventually, a gesture so utterly out of character that it sent her husband sprinting into the room. 

As per tradition, he had originally not been permitted to be present, but tradition meant nothing to him as he sat by her head and gave her his hand, which she held onto for dear life, all arguments forgotten.

Their son is a day old now and Dimitri has yet to leave the room. He has taken his meals there and slept on the hard floor, moving at lightning speed any time that Alexei so much as sniffles. 

She sees the irony now, even if she won’t accept it.

Just as her son’s name meant nothing to her yesterday, she now understands the overprotectiveness of her husband and everyone around her. She is all too aware of the empty spaces her boy once occupied inside of her as if he is all of the precious parts of her body and soul. She keeps her husband’s dagger under her pillow, ready to cut apart anyone who so much as wishes him harm.

She will place as many guards outside of his door as it takes; keep a blade from his hands for as long as it takes. He is the future Dimitri fought for; the future she never believed would be hers. 

Her boy’s heartbeat is the only one she has ever had and for that she will fight to the death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm yeah, this chapter did me a murder

“You’re doing it wrong, come here...look.”

Dimitri frowns, watching as Sylvain lifts Alexei into his arms.

“The head goes here, look, like this!”

The protocol for a royal baby is clear, even if Alexei himself doesn’t know it yet. Now that a week has passed since his birth and both he and his mother are in good health, the time has arrived for him to be properly introduced to not only the nobles of the realm, but the people of Fhirdiad. 

Some traditions are meant to be broken, though.

While the newly established heads of houses Gautier and Fraldarius were first through the gates, they were not the only ones to receive an invitation. So too did an innkeeper, four professors from the monastery, an opera starlet recently turned noble, two mercenaries and a mysterious hooded figure bearing the emblem of the knights of Seiros.

The ceremony to welcome Prince Alexei is two days from now, leaving every corner of Fhirdiad rife with anticipation. The last time they welcomed a prince was after Dimitri took control of the capital en route to Enbarr, an infamously bittersweet moment for all involved. For years the idea of welcoming a healthy heir to the throne in a time of relative peace remained little more than a wish whispered into the night. The people of Faerghus have become skeptical, hearts hardened by war and disaster. No one is quite so aware of this as the King.

Dimitri remembers his throne being stolen with far more clarity than he does reclaiming it. He was well read long before his arrival at Garreg Mach, devouring any text he could find that discussed the qualities of an ideal ruler. He spent nights poring over philosophy and proverbs- prepared for the crown of his country to weigh on his head and heart.

The crown was deceptively light in the end, though. He turned his head too quickly the first time he wore it and fell into shocked silence as it clattered on the ground at his feet. His instinct was to laugh and crack a joke; he has never been the gentle type, after all. He’s broken more lances than anyone could reasonably count, snapped Mercedes’ sewing needle in half; dented both his armour and crown. Somehow he even managed to headbutt Byleth during their first kiss. 

Tradition calls for him to stand on the balcony of their grand palace with his child in his arms, telling Faerghus the name of their future ruler. He has both dreamed of and dreaded this moment, for reasons all too clear to those who know him best.

It’s been a week now and he has yet to hold the baby, convinced beyond all rational doubt that something awful will happen. Perhaps he will bend the baby in two; perhaps he will lift him with far too much force. Byleth has told him more than once that it’s unlikely, but the idea of landing any scratches or scrapes on his legacy is too much to bear. He only ever watches the baby from a safe distance; only dares to touch him by stroking his hair.

He knows Byleth wishes he would hold him and today he has little choice in the matter. It is the King’s job to introduce the world to his legacy and in doing so reassure the people of stability. Even so, his hands shake at the very idea and he can scarcely look his friends in the eye.

Of the Blue Lions, Sylvain was the first to have children-a red haired girl named Isolde, who’s spent the past half an hour peering into the cot with a grave expression. She’s too young to understand the more complicated issues at hand and Dimitri almost envies her ignorance. 

Sylvain, who spent so much time with Isolde in his arms that she now gets incredibly upset at being parted from him, was horrified by the prospect of Dimitri being so distanced from his own child. His own scars are different in size and shape. He doesn’t fear holding his child too tightly, but giving them any inkling of rejection. Isolde bears no crest, yet he still calls her ‘princess’.

As per tradition, Sylvain arrived with gifts from House Gautier, among them a gaudy vase that no one in the room has pretended to like. Perhaps most importantly, it is almost exactly the same size and weight as a human child.

“Like this,” says Sylvain, shuffling the vase in his arms. “Look, you need to support the head.”

“This is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing either of you have ever done,” yawns Felix from his spot by the window.

Dimitri glances from the vase wrapped in furs in Sylvain’s arms to the sleeping baby and clenches his hands into fists.

“You can do it,” adds Dedue with a nod.

Dimitri rubs his hands together, taking a deep breath and reaching for the vase. His hands are trembling, his stomach churning. He knows it’s a vase and not the real thing, but it’s difficult to think of anything but either of them shattering on the floor. 

He takes the vase into his arms, back straight and shoulders rigid. He can feel it slipping even though it sits stock still. Sylvain takes a couple of steps back, grinning triumphantly at his own success.

“There it is, perfect,” he says, “though...maybe you could relax...a bit?”

“You look like you’re taking a shit,” adds Felix.

Dimitri sighs and passes the vase back to Sylvain. Why was he cursed with such clumsy hands? Why couldn’t he be as skilled with delicate work as he is on the battlefield?

“Don’t worry so much about it,” laughs Ashe, no doubt sensing his tension. “Babies were built to survive new parents!”

“That’s right, that’s right,” says Sylvain, taking the vase from him with little to no effort. “Soon you’ll be bouncing them around and-“

_ **SMASH** _

Everyone reacts at exactly the same instant.

Sylvain, who tossed the vase up into the air for emphasis, falls into shocked silence. Felix, who took a second to roll his eyes, squeezes them shut altogether. Dimitri takes two steps back, having tried and failed to catch the vase. Ashe flinches. Both Alexei and Isolde cry.

“This...this doesn’t mean anything!” Sylvain drops to his knees to gather the parts of the vase left intact. “Look...see-ow!”

“This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?” Dimitri murmurs as Sylvain examines his bloodied fingers. “For the rest of my life…”

“No, no,” Sylvain exclaims, “this is just an accident...don’t think too much about it! It was fine until I took it, honestly!”

Dimitri sucks in a deep breath and storms out of the room, away from the chaos. Sylvain flops down onto the floor with a sigh, dropping the shard of ceramic that sliced open his fingers.

“Do you think we should go after him?”

“And say what?”

Felix’s words are sharp, though betrayed by his tone.

“I dunno,” says Sylvain, “that feeling scared is normal when you first have a kid.”

“Did you hesitate to hold Isolde?”

At that, Sylvain’s eyes drop to the floor. Everyone knows that he didn’t. 

“Speaking of Isolde,” pipes up Ashe, “where is she?”

* * *

It’s been a while since all of the Blue Lions have gathered at once. Byleth sees Mercedes and Annette at the monastery fairly frequently, while Dimitri, Sylvain and Felix remain in touch via council meetings and the day to day running of the kingdom, but the only time they all seem to be in one place at the same time is at a wedding or a baptism.

Byleth has missed the idle chatter of her students and it’s plain to see that they have missed one another’s company. She acquired a fragrant tea and lemon cakes for the reunion, only for them to lay forgotten in the excitement of updates on one another’s lives. Hours have passed and conversation has barely halted, leaving only Byleth to sit in relative silence. She’s always been something of an introvert and at present there’s a lot on her mind.

Today her son will be tested for a crest and then presented to the people of Fhirdiad. She knows that it shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering how often crests and their holders have changed the course of history, yet somehow the reality of it is only just hitting her.

Since Dimitri’s ascension to the throne, the topic of crests has been hotly debated. Where before it was a cornerstone of life as a noble, now it is considered outdated at best. It’s certainly true that noble families have continued to have their children’s blood tested, though the results are rarely-if ever-made public knowledge. The practise itself might not have survived were it not for the consequences of using a relic without its proper crest, leaving it as a safety measure and little more. Even so, Byleth feels anything but safe.

She does not want anyone to break the skin on her son’s finger, no matter how gently it is done. She brought in Hannemann for the task in the hopes that she would feel better about it, but her stomach still churns with anxiety. She did not know she had a crest herself until adulthood and that knowledge gnaws at her heart. Would it really matter if none of them knew if Alexei had one either? 

She only half listens as Dorothea and Manuela frantically exchange notes on the newer compositions they heard in taverns on the journey to Fhirdiad. Enough time has passed that the war of the three houses has fallen mostly into legend, with travelling bards the world over composing tales of the noble chivalry and grand deeds of the Blue Lions and their allies. One particular ongoing theme (and consequently, ongoing joke) is the valour and strength of Ingrid of house Galatea and her incredible modesty on the matter. Ingrid has never truly known how to respond to the stories comparing her strength and beauty to that of the goddess. Naturally, her blushes only inspire Manuela and Dorothea to repeat them with gusto and their current tale involves a certain knight falling from the sky.

“...and next, next the beautiful stranger opened her eyes….”

“Oooh!”

Annette leans in closer, as if she’s listening to a secret. Ingrid blushes furiously, though tries to hide it from view.

“...she asked the innkeeper to listen closely and he crouched at her side to hear her whispers…”

Byleth has heard this story before. During a raid on a number of bandits, Ingrid fell from her horse, crashing through the roof of the inn. Somewhat miraculously, she escaped relatively unscathed from the impact, far more dazed than bruised. She stayed in the inn for a couple of days at Mercedes’ insistence and, while the true sequence of events was rather dull, the retellings grow increasingly dramatic with each passing year.

Everyone in the room knows this story, yet still wait with bated breath. As such, when Dorothea opens her mouth to whisper the request of the grand lady knight, only to be drowned out by the chaos of the door crashing open, everyone is startled. 

The shock is only temporary, though, and quickly transforms into curiosity when it’s Isolde who rushes into the room. It’s certainly true that some present know Isolde better than others, but everyone in the room is acutely aware of two things. 

One, that Isolde is nothing if not intelligent. She knows exactly how to manipulate her father into giving her extra dessert or a later bedtime, much to the ire of her mother.

Secondly, that while her loyalties certainly fall with Sylvain, who is easily the softer of the two, she will run to her mother whenever she is truly frightened. 

“Momma,” she calls out, cheeks as rosy red as her hair, “Momma! Papa dropped the baby! It broke on the floor!”

* * *

By now, Alexei has fallen silent, sleeping soundly in the crook of Dedue’s arm. Sylvain disappeared in search of Isolde, leaving Felix and Ashe to sweep up the broken vase.

“Stupid idiot,” mutters Felix, “leaving us to clean up his mess…”

Ashe can’t contain his laughter. Felix, after all, was the first to grab a broom.

“Don’t you find it nostalgic?” 

“Nostalgic?”

“Mhmm,” says Ashe. “It might sound silly, but it sort of reminds me of when we started to restore the monastery.”

Felix presses his lips together and continues to sweep, albeit in completely the wrong direction. It  _ is _ nostalgic even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Back then, Byleth added restoring the monastery to their list of after school chores. It was difficult to retain morale with enormous gaps in the ceiling. Many of the Blue Lions and their allies continued to clear the rubble long into the night. Felix complained the loudest, but more often than not stayed until dawn.

Ashe can’t keep the smile from his face, even as the door flies open and the Professor rushes in, the remaining Blue Lions and Isolde in tow. Byleth has never been easy to read, but it’s all too clear what’s running through her mind as she crosses the room and stands up on her tiptoes to peer into Alexei’s sleeping face.

“Is that...a  _ vase _ ?” Annette crouches on the floor and picks up one of the shards, holding it up to the light. “Why is it in a blanket?” 

“Baby,” says Isolde, pointing at the mess.

Byleth peers around the room, taking note of every guilty face with two significant exceptions. 

“Where’s Dimitri?” she asks.

* * *

There are very few paintings of King Lambert in Fhirdiad, though not through any sort of misfortune. In truth, he was far more interested in practising his sword arm than sitting down for a portrait, and as a consequence his likeness was captured only once.

The portrait of King Lambert sits pride of place on the wall of the heroes gallery, one singular floor of the palace dedicated to preserving the legacy of notable citizens of Faerghus. There are statues of Loog in every corner, portraits of long dead and largely forgotten kings, dusty tomes detailing the history of the land. To be placed in the gallery is one of the greatest honours in the country and Lambert’s portrait is the brightest of all. The artist captured him perfectly, from the sharpness of his jawline to his gleaming armour. He appears dignified, noble…

...and not at all as Dimitri remembers.

Dimitri remembers only his final moments, an image that so often drowns out the rest. When he tries to remember his father’s booming laughter, he recalls the sound of his final gurgles. When he thinks of his proud form, his mind immediately drifts to the moment it fell still.

He made peace years ago with the knowledge that Lambert was never coming back, but he wishes more than anything that he could remember more of him than the moment of his death.

Dimitri very often visits the painting of his father and it’s there that Byleth eventually finds him. His arms are folded, his back straight as an arrow, staring into the eyes of the painting so deeply that he doesn’t notice Byleth approach until she’s standing beside him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. 

“With what?”

“The silence.”

She stays quiet, as is so often her way, eyes drifting from him to the portrait. She, of all people, should understand. They’ve both been numb for as long as they remember and this past year has brought wave after wave of emotions to the surface.

Today they are duty bound to present their son to the kingdom and promise the very thing neither of them remember. Who are they now that there’s no battles to fight? 

In the end, Byleth says nothing at all and instead links her fingers through his.

She doesn’t let go, not even as Hanneman pricks their boy’s finger and casts his blood into the flames, revealing the Blaiddyd crest. 

She doesn’t let go as they stand on the balcony, waving to their subjects and declaring the arrival of an heir to the throne. As far as the people of Faerghus are concerned, the baby’s mere existence is a victory.

They don’t need to know how badly their king’s hands are shaking; they don’t need to know about the tears in their queen’s eyes as Hanneman’s needle broke his skin.

From this distance they can’t see the dents in his crown, nor can they tell that the bundle nestled in the crook of Dimitri’s arm contains nothing more than one of Isolde’s dolls.

The real heir to the throne is fast asleep in his nursery, as blissfully ignorant of the celebrations in his name as he is the battles that won him his birthright. 

That, in itself, is the true victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about this chapter:  
-i deliberately didn’t say who Isolde’s mother is, nor who married whom. Sail your ships, people!!  
-why is Dorothea in the Blue Lions? Bc why not  
-the hero gallery is inspired by the one in the palace of Versailles, which I visited early on this year


End file.
